Slave To Love (sizzling erotic thriller noir - full length)

by Black, Nikita

  BDSM?

  Bondage and domination?

  She blinked. Ho-boy. “I see.”

  “The task force has traced both couples through credit cards to a leather fetish club in West L.A. called Brimstone. It took a few days to track because the club masked the charges by using other company names. But the dates are all wrong for the murders, and LAPD—” he tipped his head at Detective Cody “—has hit a brick wall at the club. Everyone's clamming up. No one admits to seeing the victims or anything unusual, and we're getting nowhere fast.”

  This time her jaw did hit the floor. She stared at the chief, dumbfounded. “Leather fetish club? You mean, like—”

  He steepled his fingers over the desk. “Yeah. Whips and chains. That sort of thing. We want you and Mick to go in undercover. See what you can find out from the inside.”

  He had to be kidding.

  Her pulse kicked up. “Let me get this straight. You want me to go to this place with...Detective McGraw? Undercover?” She was totally knocked off balance for a second. “You mean, as in...dressed like that?”

  “That's right,” Bobby said with a grin. “Just another couple from the 'burbs downtown for a night of fun, frolic and S&M bondage.”

  “It shouldn't be too difficult for you, considering your talent for...costume,” McGraw commented dryly, eying her red mini-skirt and spangled top.

  She spun to face him, quickly regaining her composure. Oh, she knew costume, all right. She hadn't spent the past year on the streets for nothing. It was what lurked behind those costumes she didn't know too much about, given her self-imposed restraint concerning relationships.

  “And exactly what kind of costume did you have in mind, Detective?”

  McGraw met her gaze levelly. “The leash and collar indicate they were into a Master-slave scene, which fits with the profile of the killer we've put together. Our guy will be looking for couples who practice that lifestyle.”

  She should have reacted to the fact that he meant to use her as bait for a homicidal maniac. But her mind had snagged way back at the first sentence. “Master-slave?”

  “Yeah.” He pushed off the wall. “And in case there's any doubt, I'm the Master and you're the slave. If I take you on, I want it crystal clear who's giving the orders.”

  Of all the arrogant...

  As if she had to be reminded. “I take it this wasn't your idea.”

  “As a matter of fact, it was.” He took a step toward her. “But that doesn't mean I want some damned female rookie screwing up my investigation. Your job is to smile demurely and keep your ears open. You don't talk, you don't move, you don't even breathe without my say-so. Got it, Officer Palmer?”

  “Yeah, I got it.”

  What she got was a severe desire to smack him and his condescending demeanor back to the Stone Age. He might have the body of a god, but as a working partner he obviously left a lot to be desired. At least for her. She hadn’t escaped the emotional abuse of one rude and overbearing man just to trade him in for another. Lt. Bridger, her boss at SIS, was nothing like this. On the other hand, Lt. Bridger wasn’t the lead detective for Homicide, where she desperately wanted to be.

  She took a deep, cleansing breath.

  Turning down this opportunity would kill her. Somehow she had to find a way to work with this Neanderthal, without decking the man, and with him her career. Hell, she’d lived through her father. She’d live through McGraw, too.

  She looked him in the eye. “Why me?”

  Surprise flashed across his face before he quickly masked it. He stepped in front of her. “What's the matter? You don’t want the assignment? I’d heard you’d do anything to get into Homicide.”

  She froze at his tone when he said “anything,” her face suddenly heating. No. He couldn’t possibly have meant that the way it had sounded. Not spoken so blatantly in front of his lieutenant, his partner and the Chief, for godsakes.

  “I want nothing more than to work in Homicide, sir. But is it out of line to wonder about your motivation in choosing me?”

  “Why? You have a problem with leather?”

  “No. I have a problem being treated like an idiot, McGraw. I'm sure there must be a dozen female candidates willing to be your slave. Why me?”

  He stepped closer and got right in her face, speaking in a low voice, for her ears only. “I want you for my pleasure slave, Caroline. Nobody else. I don’t need any other reason.”

  Stunned, she stared up into his simmering gaze. He stared back with a look that covered her entire body in goosebumps. For a breathtaking instant she wondered again if he could be talking about something other than undercover work.

  “I...”

  The look of raw demand in his eyes, real or imagined, threw her as nothing else could have. There was a dark hunger lurking deep in them—a darkness she responded to on a purely primal level. A hunger she wanted nothing more than to arouse and incite, drive into the open so it would be forced to acknowledge its lust for her. If only she dared...

  “I—”

  The passion in Mick's eyes suddenly vanished and he dropped her wrist. “But if you don't think you can hack it, we'll find someone else.”

  It was like being dashed with water. Ice water. Get real, Caro. This was the Iceman—cold and remote, anything but passionate, even about the job he was so good at.

  “This has to be your decision, Officer Palmer,” the Chief said. “We'll be working with Detective Cody here, and LAPD, to have people watching you at all times. But I won't lie. It's a dangerous assignment.”

  She stuck her unsteady hands under her armpits. “That doesn't worry me.” The last thing she was concerned about was her physical safety.

  The shrill of the phone on Mick's desk made her jump. He answered with a curt hello, and listened grimly. His eyes met Bobby's across the room and some silent communication in them made his partner come to attention. “Okay. We'll be right there.”

  McGraw's steely gaze drew a bead on her and she shivered involuntarily. “Make up your mind, rookie,” he growled. “This is the last time you'll get the offer.”

  She drove her fingers through her hair, warring with herself. She so badly wanted the chance to prove she could cut it in Homicide. But it would mean working with a man who was already making her crazy. Between wanting to seduce him and wanting to kill him, she was afraid of what might happen.

  But she was more afraid she’d never get the chance again. Swallowing the knot of irrational fear lodged in her throat, she gathered her courage and prayed she wasn't making the biggest mistake of her career.

  “All right, Detective. I'll do it.”

  With the sinking, fatalistic certainty that her life would never be the same again, she heard him say, “Good. Get your gear together and come with us. They just found another couple of bodies.”

  Chapter 2

  “More Teddies?” the Lieutenant asked sharply as Mick reached for his jacket.

  “Looks like it,” Mick said.

  “He’s escalating,” Bobby said worriedly. “It’s only been two weeks since the last one.”

  “Yep,” Mick said. Now the insanity would start in earnest. One crime like this was terrible. Two crimes made people nervous. Three crimes caused an outright panic.

  “Report in as soon as you've got the preliminary,” Trujillo said, moving to the door. “Don't worry about anything you have going at SIS,” he told Caroline. “I'll let Julio know you've been reassigned.”

  “Thanks, Chief,” she said distractedly.

  Caroline looked as pale as if she'd seen her first corpse. Hell, this would probably be her first corpse. Mick frowned when he noticed sweat beading on her lip. “You sure you're up to this, Palmer?”

  She glanced his way, and abruptly her spine straightened and her expression calmed. Swiping at her lip with a finger, she said, “No problem.”

  He doubted it. “Look, you don't have to—”

  “I said I'd be okay,” she snapped, then regrouped and pushed ou
t a slow breath. “If I'm going to be a part of this, it's best I see exactly what we're up against.”

  Bobby gathered the files from the desk. “She's right, you know.”

  “Yeah, okay,” Mick conceded, then looked her over critically. “You got a badge hidden there somewhere? You'll need it.”

  From the back pocket of her miniskirt she produced her badge hanging from a thin neck chain and held it up. “Never leave home without it.”

  He headed out. “We can bring you up to speed on the ride over. We’ll take my car.”

  Bobby let out a snort. “Now, there's a shock. Hope you don't like driving,” he remarked as Caroline preceded him into the elevator. “'Cause if you're working with him, you're shit out of luck.”

  They had this same discussion every time they went out on a call. “I happen to like the car I was assigned. As opposed to that pile of crap you insist on driving. It's a downright embarrassment.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. I could drive a Lamborghini and it wouldn't make a bit of difference. You just don't like not being in control, even for a five minute drive.”

  Bobby was right, of course. But Mick wasn't about to admit that. If you let control slip away, there was no telling what would happen. And it was always bad. He led the way into the parking garage and unlocked the white, almost new Camaro Z28 convertible which had been seized from a drug dealer last year, then stepped back to consider who would climb into the back seat.

  Bobby was way ahead of him. “Ladies first,” he said with a gallant sweep of his arm toward the open passenger door.

  Caroline made a face. “In your dreams, hombre.”

  Seemed Mick was the only one lucky enough to get a floor show today. Shaking off the memory of her lithe body bending over at his feet, he ducked into the driver's side to get the portable cherry light before a smile could crack through. Everyone in the department knew Officer Palmer’d had a crush on him when she came over from Traffic. Until he’d set her straight, of course. Still, it was enough to inflate a man's ego. They’d all tried to attract her attention. He was the only one who’d succeeded. Not that he’d tried.

  He stuck the cherry onto the dashboard of the car and slid into his seat. It wasn’t his thing. He had a strict hands-off policy with women on the job. To her credit, Caro had ceased her flirtation almost immediately, as soon as she'd introduced herself in the lunch room and he'd treated her to the I'm-Not-Interested stare. But he’d also noticed he wasn’t the only one who didn’t pick his friends and lovers from among fellow-cops.

  Like he didn't get enough of them on the job that he had to take them home with him, too. No thanks. Been there, done that, bought the T-shirt from hell.

  But he wondered why she didn’t. She was, after all, the darling of SIS. She could have her pick. Those men who weren't won over by her sultry blond just-out-of-some-guy's-bed looks, were sure to be impressed with her ability as an officer. She was good. Damned good.

  Which was the only reason he'd picked her for this assignment.

  When he'd first suggested recruiting Caroline for this undercover gig, the choice had been just logical enough that he'd escaped raised eyebrows. The chief would have immediately suspected any other man in the department of having ulterior motives. Christ, the woman was liquid sex.

  But not him.

  Mick pulled out of the garage and made a right onto Colorado, forcing himself to pay attention to the narrative Bobby'd started about the case.

  “Two married couples,” his partner was saying, “the Atkins and the Connors. The Atkins were killed four weeks ago in their single family home in north Pasadena. Middle class neighborhood. Ages thirty-two and thirty-three, no kids. He was a stock broker, she was a lawyer.”

  Mick flipped on the cherry light and siren and took a sharp left across traffic onto El Molino, then interjected, “We checked out the disgruntled investor angle and also went through her client list looking for an ex-con with a grudge, but didn't find anything particularly suspicious.”

  Caroline glanced over at him, brow raised.

  “What?”

  “You weren't expecting to, were you?” she asked matter-of-factly.

  Smart girl. “No. But I'm surprised to hear a rookie from SIS say so.”

  Her chin went up. “It may come as a shock to you, Detective, but I went through the Academy. I've even read Robert Ressler.”

  It wasn't any more than he'd expected, given her reputation for diligence and her aspirations for Homicide. The crime was much too ritualistic and specific to be an improvised grudge killing. Kindergarten stuff. He drawled, “I'm delighted to hear that. I assume that means you can write, too. From now on, you're in charge of typing up our reports.”

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw her jaw clench, but damn, if she didn't muster a tight, “Yes, sir.”

  And damn, if he didn't like how those words sounded in her mouth.

  “Mick will do,” he stated coolly, hating that he liked it so much. Reactions like that could get a man seriously off track. “Or you can start calling me Master.”

  Without giving her a chance to respond, he prompted Bobby to continue. In the rear-view mirror his partner flashed a grin that said he had no idea who was winning but he was sure enjoying the contest, then picked up his narrative.

  “Two weeks ago the Connors turned up dead in their small bungalow just south of New York Ave, and we knew we were dealing with the same guy. Same signature, same exact posing of the victims. Ages twenty-eight and thirty-five, again no kids. She was an elementary school teacher, he was an engineer over at Jet Propulsion Lab.”

  Caroline leaned over to examine the photos and Bobby's eyes strayed to the low neckline of her sweater.

  But she was studying the pictures with only homicide on her mind. It wasn't her fault she even managed to make looking at crime scene photos a sexual experience.

  “Where's the blood?” she asked.

  He speared Bobby with a glare and the other man sat back in his seat, stacked his hands behind his neck and gave him another wise-ass grin before turning back to Caroline. “What do you mean? There's plenty of blood.”

  Mick wasn’t interested in her for himself. He just wanted everybody to keep their minds on the case. Personal relationships on the job caused nothing but trouble. Big-time trouble. For him, this case was do or die; nothing and nobody was going to get in the way of taking it to its conclusion. Sexy Caroline Palmer included. She was a means to an end. Period.

  Looking up at him, she said, “The male victims were stabbed in the back, but the blood's mostly in front.”

  Damn, she had a good eye. He was impressed. “The Coroner thinks the men were stabbed right after ejaculation, presumably on the bed,” he answered. “Then, judging by the marks in the carpets, they were dragged to the chair where he gutted them with a second knife.”

  “Same kind?”

  “Nope. One’s a cooking knife, the other’s for hunting.”

  “That’s unusual. Did he bring them with him?”

  “Yep. Took them away with him, too.”

  “Huh.” She sifted through the photos for a few moments. “No blood on the bed.”

  “Correct. There were traces of plastic and absorbent material found in the back wounds.”

  “Absorbent? Like diapers?”

  “Exactly. We think he soaked up the blood as soon as he stabbed them in the back. Maybe even stabbed them through it to prevent spatter.”

  “A neat freak?”

  “Definitely. He washed any blood off the woman and changed the bed sheets afterwards, too. Forensics is checking all that, including the detergent residue for a match to the house linens. We’re hoping he brought his own.”

  “If he did, what did he do with the blood-soaked ones?”

  “Must have taken them with him.”

  “So hopefully we’ll find them at his place when we catch him.”

  He snorted softly. “Hope springs eternal.”

  “So he’s let into the h
ouse by the victims, with at least two knives, leather gloves, ligatures, a pack of diapers and possibly a change of sheets. Sheesh. Think he brought the teddies, too?”

  “Presumably. We have a team on trying to find the source.”

  There was a pause as she digested all that, then Bobby went on. “Forensics reports are in the files. Basically, what they say is we got squat from the crime scenes in terms of traceable, usable evidence. But of course, our bad guy left a dandy pile of stuff for the profiler.”

  “Special Agent Tim Woodruff of the FBI has been working with us on that,” Mick said. “He'll be in for a briefing tomorrow.” He caught her eye. “You'll want to read the profile extra carefully. This is the killer who'll be looking us over at the Brimstone fetish club. To nab him we need to know him as well as we know each other.”

  “Well, that won't be tough,” she muttered as he pulled in behind a jumble of police cruisers, a pair of ambulances, the department's mobile Field Identification Specialist Unit’s forensics van and a fire truck. She looked around in surprise, glancing up and down the street. “Oh!”

  “What's wrong?”

  “This is just a couple blocks from where I live.”

  “Then it looks like I've picked the right person to work with,” he remarked casually, “killers being creatures of habit, and all.”

  She looked spooked for a second, but then snapped out of it. In spite of himself, again Mick was impressed.

  He'd been rough on her today. More than rough. Not because he wanted to be a prick or treat her like an idiot, as she’d accused. But because he’d had to know if she could take the heat. Where they were headed it was going to get a hell of a lot hotter. She'd come through with colors flying high. If he'd thought any differently he wouldn't have chosen her to fulfill the most crucial role in his plan, other than his own.

  The Teddie Killer was on the verge of causing mass hysteria in the usually quiet suburban neighborhood where he struck. And those murders ate at Mick's insides like no one would ever know.